Passing Time
by Iridesque
Summary: In two years time, Clint Barton's life changed completely and irreversibly, but it was ultimately up to him to decide whether it was for the better or for the worse. A Clintasha fic.


"It was nothing we were ever trained for," she had reminded him gently, after his waking in the battle of New York.

At the time, he had disagreed. Even though he wasn't in control of his body, he couldn't stop blaming himself. It was after all, his fault in the end. Technically, it was his hand, his doing, and his weak mind that couldn't stop himself. With a history like his own, he had been trained from young to think on the technical side rather than emotionally, but this time, the self-blame was _definitely_ technical.

_It had been two years ago._ Two years ago when Loki took control his mind. When he struggled daily forget the nightmares that plagued him; of the countless soldiers fallen due to his right hand, the hand that let the arrows fly. Perhaps she was right about it. They weren't trained to fight aliens or mind-control, but he had a job to finish, and no matter what the cost, failure wasn't acceptable.

She was always there; she was there when he needed her to help him forget the pain behind his eyelids. "I owe you a debt," was what she would always claim. He hoping though, that maybe it was a little more than that. Maybe she actually felt something about him. Perhaps she was just like him after all.

_It had been a year and a half_ ago when he returned the favor. An hour after she had gone in for the mission, he realized it was a trap. They were in Paris and the mission was to get information off of a gentleman who she had taken to the ball. Only after the man had 'brought her to his room,' had he noticed that something was wrong. He rushed in, arrows flying and glass shattering to find out that the room they had been given was a trap itself. He had taken out the soldiers quite easily, though marked with numerous cuts and for a souvenir. He discovered the room number from the man before piercing his chest with his weapon, and finally raced off to find her.

He arrived just in time. He thanked whatever deity for looking after him as well as Natasha and for the uninterrupted journey towards the second room, because the man didn't know what hit him. He wasn't even aware that it was Hawkeye's arrow that pierced his skull. His eyes were still full of pride and revenge; about to violate her before the life was taken out of him. He took her back into her embrace. With her face buried in his chest, he was reminded of the same girl he had saved from a terrible fate years ago. The moment when he had spared her life, choosing his heart over his duty, was the first time of many.

After that mission, he had helped her recover for a short while, and then continued to act as if nothing had changed. She might have assumed so, but he couldn't deny it forever. His whole perspective had changed drastically, and he no longer knew where the line between his emotions and his purpose was. "I owed her a debt," he would lie convincingly, to everyone except for himself.

_Then again, it was a year ago,_ on the New Years Eve under the stars when he finally confessed his feelings for her. It had been after a mission, returning to a place that would never leave his memory, Budapest. Though his memory of the place was completely different from Natasha's, it was nice to return to somewhere that they had shared memories together. For she might have remembered fighting alongside her trusted partner and the adrenaline rushing through her veins, but the things that stood out from his memory were the ballroom dances and her sparkling eyes when they joked about having children on the hotel balcony at midnight.

The mission had been tough, but the rewards were great. In a moment of relief, he wrapped his arms around her waist, lifted her up and spun her around with a lopsided grin on his face. She had resisted the urge to slap him, and instead, just laughed along. Putting her down, he leaned across the railing of the terrace and finally told her what he had meant to say many times. It was discreet, coded in literary elements and puzzles, but she wasn't an assassin for nothing. The moment the words left his mouth, she had already figured it all out. She simply smiled and kissed him on the lips. Moments later, the grand fireworks lit up the city, and he put his arm across her shoulder, watching them contently on the same balcony they had shared their dreams together those many years ago.

The fireworks in his heart were much more grand than any fireworks that the world could provide, and he still stands by the statement today.

_And it was six months ago_ when his life changed drastically once more. After all the times that had joked about writing letters and eulogies for each other's funerals, he had never imagined it coming true. Of course, every mission had a certain element of danger, but it wasn't a mission that had taken her out. She wasn't even taken out, just placed in a comatose, all because of a drunk driver.

The rest of the team visited every week, bringing flowers, soup, chocolates, cards, gifts, stories... all ready for her to wake up. The doctors were positive that she was getting better, but she wouldn't wake. He had taken up a habit of staying at her bedside every day, saying that it wouldn't be fair if she woke up alone.

He started writing letters to her, hoping she would wake up to read them; with her rare, contagious laughter and tears in her eyes, teasing him about how silly he was. He had brought her more flowers, though he knew she disliked them. "What's the point if they die anyways?" she would always ask. There would be a tone of teasing in her voice, the sarcastic roll of her eyes, and a fake slap to his arm. He smiled to himself, remembering the sweet scent of her shampoo, or the way her body fit to his when he hugged her. He could remember the missions together, their dreams, their laughter, even their arguments were worth remembering as he held her hand; seemingly smaller than he could remember. He wished that he had the guts to propose earlier as he fingered the small velvet box permanently seated in his left pocket.

He could keep lying to himself, to say that things had gone better and there was a happy-ever-after. That she woke up to her prince-in-shining-armor's kiss, and they rode off into the sunset, living by the beach with their two children, but not everything goes as planned.

_Then finally, three months ago_, her conditioned turned for the worse.

They were too late.

Once again, he was too late.

He looked around the dingy apartment with bleary eyes and slurred words. There were times, perhaps once a month when Tony or Steve would come by, clean him up and bring him back to the real world, and he would stay there, for a week perhaps, before slipping into oblivion once more.

It was almost funny, how he swore to find the driver and to kill him over and over again for being such an _idiot_; for drinking so much, and he was doing exactly the same. He had downed three bottles of bear, lying on the carpet surrounded by broken glass. He had been dismissed from S.H.I.E.L.D; for an emotional wreck was no use for the cause. He forced a bitter laugh, almost choking on the sour taste at the back of his throat. He no longer cried; for his tears were nonexistent. Bottle after bottle, he drowned his sorrows, trying to forget the things he loved about her.

He hated himself. He hated how he couldn't save her. He hated how he never proposed, how he was handling everything. He knew that both their jobs had their risks, but why was it so hard to deal with? Grabbing the empty bottle, he hurled it at the wall in a fit of rage, the glass shattering, like many of his dreams. Deep inside, something had shattered beyond repair, and this time, she wasn't there to save him.

"It was nothing we were ever trained for," his memory reminded him, and this time, he finally agreed to her words. There was nothing that would ever prepare him for this loss. With a smirk, he grabbed another bottle, laughing bitterly at the irony of the situation; where she died because of a drunk. 'Look where I turned up after that,' he often told himself. Taking another swig from the bottle, his bloodshot eyes began to close.

'If only you could see me now,' he thought to himself. 'You would be laughing, because I'm dying of the same cause too,'

**Author's Comments;** I finally decided to upload this, since I fell in love with this shipping after watching the movie. Constructive Criticism is welcome! Read and Review! Thank you!


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